


my father moved through dooms of love

by shetheybrucebanner



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of body horror? not entirely sure how to explain/tag it), Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Awesome May Parker (Spider-Man), Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Extremis (Marvel), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Kidnapping, M/M, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) Needs a Hug, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Michelle Jones is MJ and i will forever die on that hill friends, Missing Persons, Peter Parker Angst, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, emphasis on the coparenting though bc May is a Queen and I larb her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetheybrucebanner/pseuds/shetheybrucebanner
Summary: Peter Parker has been gone for three-hundred and forty-five days, fifteen hours, two minutes, and fifty seconds.Far away, deep in the woods of Canada, underneath the ground, was a sterile, empty lab.On the examination table of the lab was a chrysalis, transparent just enough for the body inside to be slightly invisible. The chrysalis began to move as the body fidgeted enough to cause it to wake up.Two golden eyes opened.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 34
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blue As True As Blue Can Be](https://archiveofourown.org/works/648087) by [aaralyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaralyn/pseuds/aaralyn). 
  * Inspired by [(Iron Is A) Star Killer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570533) by [RayShippouUchiha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RayShippouUchiha/pseuds/RayShippouUchiha). 



> me?? back on my posting yet another fic instead of updating my wips bullshit??? oh you know it
> 
> SO this piece was originally going to be for the Irondad Big Bang but I am applying for GRAD SCHOOL so this unfortunately had to go on the back burner. I'm hoping that by posting this chapter it'll keep me accountable, we'll see bc it definitely has not in the past (i am trying hard to work on my current works i just have a brain that is nerfing me) but yeah, the plan is to eventually finish this work, when that will be? no idea. definitely no where near the posting dates for the Big Bang, which is again why i dropped, but hopefully next year my brain can get its shit together :/ anyway, i hope u enjoy it!!
> 
> edit: the wonderful seekrest pointed out something important to me, so I just wanted to preface that this fic has MCU Michelle Jones as MJ! (as does my fic Grocery Store Coupons) I had originally tagged this as Peter/Mary Jane because MJ is Mary Jane, but I can completely understand any confusion this may have caused, so I changed the tag to Peter/Michelle and switched out the Mary Jane and Michelle Jones for the character tags. we do not erase MCU MJ in this household; but again, just wanted to apologize for any confusion this may have caused !!

Three-hundred and thirty-seven days, ten hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-one seconds. 

That was how long Peter Parker had been gone. 

Tony stared at the numbers, watching the seconds go up as he sipped his whiskey. All he could do these days was watch time go by, apparently. 

His stomach turned as the whiskey burned his throat, his body weakly protesting as he decided to chug the rest of his cup down. 

What did it matter if he was puking his guts out, or so hungover the next day that moving his head would feel like being shot? 

None of it mattered anymore. 

He grabbed the bottle of whiskey, frowning as he saw that it was getting low. He knew, logically, that bottles tended to get empty when you locked yourself in your workshop with nothing but alcohol and misery. But that logical side was lost under the haze of blissful drunkenness, the consequence of Tony trying to numb himself. 

Rather than pour the rest of the whiskey into his cup, Tony took a large swig from the bottle, grimacing with the way it tasted on his tongue. It was good whiskey, he had been saving it for a special occasion before he had decided to sober up. But there were no special occasions anymore, no reason to stay sober. The whiskey tasted like cold metal, cold winds, coldness. Numbness. Nothingness. 

“Boss? Colonel Rhodes is asking after you,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. started, her accented voice soft. Tony ignored her, struggling to move from his work-desk before he gave up and sunk to the floor. “He’s requesting an update on your condition. Shall I send your vitals?” 

He couldn’t help the bitter laugh at that. 

What did it matter what his vitals looked like? Who cared if his stupid, ridiculous, hopeful heart kept beating anymore? If it was pumping blood through his body and carrying oxygen to his brain? 

What did it matter, anymore, if Tony was alive, when Peter wasn’t?

“Boss, Colonel Rhodes is threatening to use Override Code For Better or For Worse if you do not consent to my sending your vitals,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. continued, voice rising in concern. Tony didn’t say anything, and continued to drink from the whiskey bottle. After a few moments, the AI spoke up again. 

“Colonel Rhodes has used his override code. Vitals have been sent, Boss. The Colonel has told you he’s an hour away.” Shit. 

“Tell ‘im I’m fine, Fri,” Tony mumbled, knowing with certainty that he was slurring his words. Drinking a bottle of whiskey tended to do that to a person. “No need, gonna be fine.” The AI didn’t answer, and Tony wondered if she was contemplating her existence, stuck to serve his alcoholic ass. That wouldn’t be an existence worth living, he mused, but life, artificial or not, tended not to be fair. 

If it was, Peter wouldn’t have been found dead. 

The words were heavy in his mind, burning him more than the alcohol in his throat, and Tony considered for the first time how likely it was that he’d throw up all over himself before Rhodey got here. Not that Rhodey hadn’t seen him make a mess of himself before, but he didn’t particularly enjoy having his husband see him acting like he was a stupid kid at college again. 

But then again, _his_ kid would never go to college. If there was a time to make a mess of himself, he figured this warranted it. With that, he swallowed the rest of the whiskey, weakly throwing the bottle across the room before passing out.

Small mercies.

* * *

Tony dreams, okay? Dreams a lot. And most of his dreams were awful, terrible. Of Peter asking him to save him, and Tony was stuck frozen in place watching his kid die yet again. Or he’d be trying to call out to him, and finding he had no voice. Of course, none of those things had happened in real life. He hadn't seen Peter in almost a year; those were just creations from his mind.

The worst dream is the dream of what _did_ happen. Of the last time Tony saw Peter, but neither of them knew it would be the last time. 

Once again, the dream came. 

It started the same way it always did, with Tony watching the scene like it was some twisted movie, and he was stuck behind a wall of glass, unable to do anything. 

_“Kid,” Dream Tony started, “as much as I’d love to get you an ice cream maker, I don’t think your aunt would be fine with that.” Dream Peter rolled his eyes, flopping himself onto the worktable in an attempt to use pity to get Tony to change his mind._

_(_ If Tony could go back, he would buy him an entire ice cream chain. _)_

_“C’mon,” Peter whined. “We could have ice cream whenever we want.” Tony poked him with a screwdriver, sticking his tongue out when Peter frowned at him._

_“You realize that I’m a billionaire, right? If you just ask to get ice cream, we can,” Tony pointed out._

_“Yeah, but I want to get a job at this ice cream shop near the apartment, and it would be cool to show off my skills. Plus, we can make our own flavors,” Peter argued._

_“May is still mad at me for letting you go into space last month, she’s not going to be happy with my enabling you to have ice cream at one in the morning,” Tony retorted, making Peter sigh and run his fingers through his floppy brown hair._

(It was the most bittersweet thing Tony had ever seen.)

_“Consider this though, we don’t tell May,” Peter suggested. “And then I wow her with my ability to make beautiful ice cream cones. And then I get that job and can buy her something really nice for her birthday.”_

_“One, I’m sure they do on-the-job training, kid. Secondly, if the whole reason you want the ice cream maker is to somehow make money to get something for May, don’t worry about it. Just pick something out and buy it with your internship credit card.” Tony cackled when Peter looked at him with the utmost horror._

_“Tony, that’s for the internship and the internship only, I can’t just use your money-”_

_“You didn’t protest this much when my money bought you a new Lego set-”_

_“That’s different, that was for my birthday. Anyway, I want to show May that I’m responsible. Not superhero responsible,” Peter explained, “but having a job and buying something with the money I earned responsibly.”_

(Tony’s heart ached when he saw how fucking earnest the expression was on his kid’s face. It felt like the shrapnel was practically back in his chest.)

_“While I admire the work effort, like I said, they’d offer you training. It’s not like they’re going to ask you to make soft serve at an interview,” Tony said, eyebrow raised._

_“Okay, well, maybe I also want the ice-cream maker for my own reasons, but still,” Peter smirked, and Tony swatted his head affectionately with a rolled-up blueprint. Tony was about to say something, but then Peter’s watch beeped. “Crap, I need to get going Tony, I told MJ I’d study with her tonight.”_

_“Oh, is studying what the kids call it now?” Tony asked, a faux innocent tone in his voice. Peter’s face reddened so deeply that he looked like he got a minor sunburn, making Tony laugh again._

_“Tony, stop it,” Peter sputtered out. “MJ sees me as a friend and a friend alone, okay? Stop being weird and old about it, I didn’t tell you how I felt just for you to make fun of me.”_

_“Old? Someone is feeling feisty today,” Tony teased. “Go on, leave me for your little teen romance.” Peter groaned, packing up his backpack, but he didn’t try to deny that he wanted the whole ‘little teen romance.’ “Just make sure to be safe!”_

_“Tony,” Peter said darkly, pulling on his backpack and looking like he wanted to web Tony to the wall, “I can and I will tell Rhodey about the stash of gummy bears you’ve been hiding from him if you don’t stop making a big deal out of this.” Tony rolled his eyes, pulling his kid in for a hug._

_“Alright, alright, I’ll go easy on you. Seriously though, good work today.” Peter looked up at him, brown eyes slightly widened._

_“Yeah?”_

(There was that same, damn earnest tone again.) 

_Tony nodded, squeezing his kid slightly._

_“Mhm. I’m proud of you, kiddo.” Peter beamed, and pulled back from the hug to head towards the workshop door._

_“See you later, Tony!” He was about to leave when Tony called out his name, and Peter’s head turned, face curious._

_“Make sure you leave the door open,” Tony called out, almost collapsing with laughter when Peter huffed and slammed the door shut, even though it cracked the glass. Totally worth it._

Tony watched his dream self turn back to his own project, dread growing in his stomach. In real life, he was only called by a frantic May hours later, when MJ had called _her_ and asked why Peter had stood her up. But in his dream it was only a few seconds until F.R.I.D.A.Y. told him he had an important call. 

_“Tony? It’s Frank. I’m so sorry to tell you this-but we found some new evidence. It’s-again, I’m so sorry, but it points to Peter being dead.”_

Tony’s scream filled the air, sharp enough to pierce his eardrums. But he wasn’t sure who was screaming-him, or his dream self.

* * *

“Tones? Tony, honey, wake up, please!” 

Tony’s eyes snapped open to see Rhodey’s terrified face looking down at him. It was as if time slowed down, and he could feel every sensation simultaneously; he tracked it all and categorized it in his brain for the next time he went numb.

Rhodey’s warm hands were on his skin, cupping his face. The sound of the bots whirring next to him filled his ears; they were clearly worried. The smell of whiskey and oil. The sight of Rhodey’s deep, dark brown eyes. He could get lost in those eyes. 

In moments like this, he wished he could. 

“Jesus, Tony,” Rhodey whispered, pulling Tony up and towards his chest. He wrapped Tony tightly in his arms, and Tony felt himself sigh in relief, a huff of breath against his husband’s neck. Rhodey was, quite possibly, the only reason why he hadn’t gone completely off the fucking rails yet. 

He was suddenly so tired, the whiskey making his brain feel foggy, but he could hear Rhodey talking to him, the sound of his voice muffled. Groaning quietly, he pulled back, looking at his husband with tired, no doubt bloodshot eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked, looking at how tight Rhodey’s mouth was, how concerned and angry his eyes were. He hadn’t seen him like this since Peter had gone missing. His eyes glanced over Tony, as if he was searching for something but it was nowhere in sight. Finally, he sighed, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths before he responded. 

“Tones. You haven’t been answering any of my calls since-well, since you told me about Peter,” Rhodey started. “You forbid F.R.I.D.A.Y. from telling me what was going on with you. Hell, I told you I was coming back from Germany and you still kept me out until I had to use one of my overrides. And it showed me you were drinking? Tony, honey, why-” Tony rolled his eyes, the caring but angered words from Rhodey washing right over him.

“I vaguely remember you attending MIT with me, Platypus. I don’t think it’s rocket science as to why I’d be drinking after my kid’s remains were found, do you?” Rhodey shot him a look, but either Tony was still drunk, or he had lost touch with deciphering what his husband was trying to say to him. 

“Rocket science was easy,” Rhodey muttered, looking down at their entwined hands after several moments of silence. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed. Maybe after a shower first,” he grimaced, clearly smelling the whiskey on his breath. 

“If I remember correctly, you were the one waking me up from my nap,” Tony slurred, the movement from Rhodey helping him up making him stomach twist with discomfort. The taste of whiskey was back, and his tongue felt thick. “You going to join me in the shower?” The quip had none of its usual humor in it, his voice empty and emotionless. 

He had thought when this all started that his heart had been ripped out of him, but he was wrong. When he had gotten that call, it had just sunk him even lower. 

“Not a chance,” Rhodey retorted, smoothing his husband’s unwashed hair back. If this was any other moment, if Tony wasn’t crumbling from realizing one of the few members of his family he had left had fucking died, maybe he would have been embarassed. But it was hard to be embarrassed with Rhodey; he had seen him at his worst, after all. 

As they stepped towards the exit of his workshop, with Rhodey’s hand wrapped around Tony’s waist, the scene struck him as eerily similar. It was similar to how Peter had left, all those months ago in real life, and only minutes ago in his dream. He stopped, pulling away from Rhodey to vomit noisily into an old hat of Clint’s that the archer had left there a few months prior. 

Yeah, Rhodey had definitely seen him at his worst. 

He felt Rhodey rub his back, the motion practiced and comforting, and he finally pushed himself back from the sink, wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve. He pretended to ignore the wince from Rhodey; thankfully, the man had a strong stomach. 

“I should get the bots-” Rhodey just took his hand back in his own and led him from the lab, not letting him finish his sentence. Or maybe he had? The thoughts in his head were blurry, and it was as if he was walking underwater by the time they got back to the penthouse. Rhodey helped him into the shower, and did actually get in, helping him wash his hair and rubbing his back when he inevitably threw up yet again, straight into the shower drain. Thank God the braces were waterproof. 

Note to self for future Tony, he mused, avoid the whiskey next time. After all, it had been Howard’s drink of choice. 

Finally, Tony ended up in bed, wrapped up in their blankets and wearing one of Rhodey’s old sweatshirts and a pair of fuzzy socks that Pepper had put in his stocking one year. Rhodey was still in the shower himself, no doubt washing off the vomit and whiskey. 

God, he deserved better than him, Tony mused. Admittedly, he had somehow been doing even worse while at MIT, the two of them having had to go to the emergency room a few times for alcohol poisoning, but still, that didn’t mean this felt good. If anything, the years of being sober suddenly gone made it worse. He was such a fuck up. No wonder he hadn’t found Peter-no, _no._ He refused to think about that right now; he’d drink again, and after all the work Rhodey had done to sober him up, he didn’t want to ruin his husband’s evening yet again. He may have liked to break records, but that wasn't one of them.

He felt the warmth of Rhodey’s hand on his shoulder as his husband climbed into bed next to him, and Tony turned over, throwing a hand over the man’s waist and tucking his head against his hip. Rhodey’s fingers instantly went to his hair, softly playing with the damp tufts of hair. 

“Thank you,” he murmured hoarsely, and Rhodey’s fingers stilled. 

“You know you don’t have to thank me for having your back,” Rhodey said quietly. Tony huffed, but he refused to look him in the eyes. 

“I do, yeah. At the very least, I need to say sorry. For making you see that again.” 

“Tony, it’s okay-” Rhodey felt tense next to him, but Tony had to get everything out. 

“It’s not. It’s really not. I threw so many years down the drain; the last thing I wanted was for you to deal with my drunk ass again. I promised you you’d never have to see me like that again.” Rhodey’s fingers traced down his neck, and Tony could feel his eyes getting wet. How could he deserve being treated like this? Like he mattered, like he deserved love, after he failed Peter? 

“The scariest thing about seeing you like that wasn’t seeing you drunk, Tony. It was hearing you scream and not being able to wake you up,” Rhodey said, his voice tight. “Tony, honey, I don’t know how to help you with this. With what happened with Peter.” Tony felt the shrapnel in his chest dig in. “It’s not exactly in the handbook of life. But I promise I’m going to be here regardless. I’m not going to let your heart break without being here to help you patch it up.” 

“I don’t even want my heart anymore, Rhodey. It feels dead. I want it out,” Tony said, his voice numb. He knew he sounded unstable, but it was the truth. If he could, he’d dig his own heart out and lie next to the grave they found Peter in, and use the arc reactor as their headstone. Rhodey was quiet again, weighing his words. Part of Tony wanted to assure him that it was fine, to just talk, but considering how he was handling everything else? Who knew what would make him lose it. 

“Well, I’ll take care of it, then, and keep it safe until you want it,” Rhodey finally said, not an offer but a statement. If Rhodey decided that he wanted to do something, it basically took a moving train (and in their line of work, that happened quite frequently) to throw his husband even the slightest bit off track. “We’re going to get through this, Tones. I’m not going to let you do this alone.” He sounded certain about that, but Tony had his doubts. 

A life without Peter? He wasn’t sure if that was something he wanted to get through. 

* * *

Thank God for Pepper Potts. 

Considering he skipped (or tried to skip) most board meetings, it was no surprise that with the horror story that had become his life that Pepper had gotten the board to support his continued time off the day he had found out Peter was missing. 

What was a surprise was being woken up by F.R.I.D.A.Y. telling him he needed to wake up and see his friend, who was sitting comfortably on their worn out couch. 

_Peter loved that couch-_

He pushed away the thought, sending praise to whatever god out there that Pepper had chosen not to sit in Peter’s favorite armchair. If he had seen that, he probably would have tried to take the arc reactor out again. 

Pepper wordlessly held out a coffee to him, and he walked over to accept it, sitting down and letting her pull him into a hug. Even now, he was a tactile person, and the pressure of the hug slightly helped the sick feeling in his chest. As for the headache and nausea, he hoped the coffee would help with that. 

“How are you holding up?” Pepper asked after a few minutes, letting Tony drink half of the burning coffee in a few gulps. He shrugged, shooting her an empty half-smile. 

“Oh, you know. Absolutely wonderful.” Pepper nodded knowingly at him, sipping from her own black coffee.

“Absolute horse-shit, then.” The Old Tony, the Tony who knew his kid was alive, would have laughed. This Tony just shrugged at the comment. Pepper wasn’t wrong. “The Board sends their continued condolences.” 

“Y’know, if I didn’t think they were demons in wrinkled meat suits, I would think it was sincere,” Tony mused, the mere act of talking making him feel tired. Still, the shit-talking and coffee drinking after a long and tedious Board meeting? It was a sense of normal that Tony selfishly, desperately, grasped for. “I’m assuming Rhodey called you?” All Pepper did was nod. “Ah, babysitting duty?” 

“More like, making sure my best friend doesn’t drink himself into oblivion and choke in his sleep while his husband tries to explain to the President why he suddenly disappeared from Europe..” It was the easy, ruthless tone to her voice that was part of what made Pepper so victorious in the boardroom. “So, what are we doing today?” 

“No other meetings today?” 

“I cleared my schedule for you,” Pepper explained, nudging off her heels and curling up on the couch. “The last thing you need is another relapse.” The words stung, embarrassed him, but they weren’t wrong. If he could drink himself to death in that moment, he would have. The penthouse had never been cleaned out of alcohol, though Rhodey probably attempted to do that this morning while he slept. Still, though, he had stashes that Rhodey never would know about, regardless of his sobriety.

“We should watch some crap tv and let me pass out to the newest Kardashian update,” Tony suggested, though he knew it was the coward’s way out. What he needed to do was answer May’s calls, talk about a funeral, because his kid needed one of those. The thought made him sick. And then there was cleaning out Peter’s room, checking on his friends. Trying to find the bastard who murdered him.

Again, though. Coward. 

Thankfully, Pepper didn’t protest, which Tony knew had to be killing her. Pepper had always functioned best by compartmentalizing horrible moments and burying herself into her work. Hell, she had dealt with her mother’s death by drafting new business deals to tech companies in Japan and New Zealand. Pepper had loved Peter too (who didn’t, after all) and probably wanted to organize everything that Tony was pushing off. 

Everything that needed to be tied up at the end of a life. 

But she didn’t say anything, didn’t suggest calling May, though if Tony knew May well enough, she probably had called the CEO in an attempt to talk to Tony. She just sat with him, grabbing at the remote and flicking through the channels to find a Love Island rerun. 

When she fell asleep at his side, he filled his empty coffee cup with vodka, chugging it before she woke up and caught him. 

And he pretended not to notice the concerned looks on her face when she woke up, and on Rhodey’s face when he finally came home. 

Turns out, Tony was pretty good at compartmentalizing too. 

* * *

The days blurred into each other, a mix of alcohol and disappointed looks from Pepper and Rhodey and news reporters latching onto the story like the vultures they were, telling the whole world about how missing Queens teen Peter Parker was assumed dead after a little boy found some remains. 

(Tony had never hated children, but he’d be willing to punt that kid as far as he could kick him.)

None of the reporters said anything about him being Spiderman, but that was because they didn’t know. Peter had been taken as the teen he was, not captured as the vigilante superhero who protected the citizens of Queens. Part of Tony though that was for the best-it would have put May in danger from criminals who suddenly knew who Peter’s next of kin was. Every time reporters asked, though, where Spiderman had gone? Yeah, that cut right down to the bone. 

He was fully aware he was wallowing, but if it wasn’t the time to do that, when was? 

The change in routine came a week after Rhodey woke him from his nightmare, and Tony was yet again on his way to getting blackout drunk from vodka in the workshop. Tony had changed Rhodey and Pepper’s override codes in case they tried to come in, though he had a feeling that if he started choking on his vomit like he did yesterday, F.R.I.D.A.Y. going to disobey him and let them come in anyway. 

He was on his third drink when something dropped onto his back, the surprising change in weight making him drop the glass onto the ground. 

“What-” The weight was clearly a person, considering it wrapped its leg around his neck and twisted _hard_ , causing him to stumble and fall as he was brought down to the ground, flat on his back. He felt some of the shards of his glass dig into the back of his thighs, but he was more interested in staring up at his attacker then focusing on the pain. 

Looking down at him with disgust was the Black Widow. 

“Long time no see, Nat,” he snarked, trying to look as tough as possible. It was somewhat hard, considering that Natasha had seen him in Hulk slippers and a pajama set with her widow bites as the print. (Add to the fact that she had snuck up on him with absolute ease and took him down in less than a minute, though that had always been more impressive than anything else.) “Thought you were on a mission.” 

“Taken care of.” Her words were succinct and cold, and Tony wanted to shiver. Was this how she intimidated her prey? 

“So...you decided to come here first, rather than go see Steve? What, trouble in paradise?” Natasha didn’t even give that a response, rolling her eyes and putting up her middle fingers. 

“You’re being pathetic about this, Antoshka. I’m here to nip that in the bud.” She glared at him, crossing her arms. If he looked closely, Tony could see the faint lines of butterfly bandages near her hairline. 

“Wasn’t aware that grieving my murdered child was pathetic. Where did they teach you that, the Red Room?” Tony bit back, his own words dripping with acid. It was an incredibly low blow, but Natasha’s face softened just the slightest bit, and she cocked her head to look at him. 

“Yes, actually.” She didn’t say anything else, just gave him a hand to help him up. Tony took it, grunting as he felt his knees crack. God, he was getting too old for this shit. Natasha stared at him, looking him over, then punched him hard in the stomach. 

“Suppose I deserved that,” Tony wheezed, stepping back as she plopped down onto the workshop couch. Natasha stared at her nails, frowning at some imaginary imperfection. 

“For the Red Room comment, yes. Not for grieving, though they did teach us in the Red Room that crying after we gutted our comrades was a sign of weakness,” she said, shrugging and crossing her arms. The comment turned his stomach, and he was suddenly thankful that Natasha beat the shit out of him before he finished the bottle of vodka. Speaking of that, Natasha somehow took the bottle at some point, and was drinking casually out of it, no cup needed. 

“Could you be more stereotypical?” He asked, going to sit down next to her. Natasha grinned at him, her teeth sharp and deadly. 

“If I ripped the throat out of a bear after a swig or two, yes, I suppose I could be.” She was silent, but he was more than aware that that didn’t mean she had nothing to say. Natasha was incredibly patient, and more than willing to wait for her target to do all the talking necessary. Tony, unfortunately, for all the stubborn patience he had when perfecting a project, hated silence. 

“How did you know? I thought you were deep underground?” He finally asked, hands feeling for the glass that had dug into his skin. He didn’t want to look her in the eyes. 

“I had some contact with my handler through a shitty flip phone. Pepper called me two days ago about what was going on.”

“So you decided to come and beat the shit out of me?” He asked, his voice incredulous. At the very least, getting his ass handed to him had put some emotion back in his voice. 

“Not originally. When I found out about Peter, I wanted to be here for you, even though I’m not that good at it.” Not true. Natasha had never been as skilled with words as Tony, but everyone on the team knew that she cared, even when she threatened to throw Clint into the wall. 

“I appreciate that,” Tony murmured, pulling out some of the shards of glass and dropping them onto the couch cushion. They were slightly bloody, and he had a feeling that once Rhodey saw the remaining pieces, he was going to insist that he go get them taken out in the MedBay. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Tony. Peter deserved better.” What an understatement. Unsurprisingly, Tony felt tears well up in his eyes, and he brushed them away angrily. “You can cry, if you want. Regardless of my past, I understand why you’d cry.” 

“You could fool me,” he said darkly, sniffing and trying to get his breathing under control. The last thing he wanted was to have an anxiety attack in front of the Black Widow. 

“Like I said, your grieving isn’t pathetic, Antoshka. That’s not why I slammed you into the ground. What is pathetic is the way you’re coping. Pepper told me how you’ve been pushing people away. And drinking to do that, specifically. Considering you smell like a distillery, I’m inclined to believe that you haven’t been one hundred percent sober since they found Peter.” 

“Remains. They didn’t find Peter,” Tony choked out, the words rough and harsh. It felt like he was forcibly removing them from his body. “They found one of his parietal bones and some of his teeth and fingers. They didn’t find him.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Natasha shoot him a look of sympathy. 

“Alright then. You haven’t been sober since they found his remains and you’re pushing away everyone who cares about you. You know this isn’t the way to handle it,” she said matter of factly. Part of Tony wanted to throttle her. If he didn’t know this wasn’t the way to handle it, he’d probably have died a long time ago. 

“I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot. And you know that since this is a disease, a relapse from a major trigger like this is understandable. So is needing some time to myself.” Natasha raised her eyebrow, and she looked at him with a neutral expression. 

“You’ve gotten sober before. Do it again.” If it was that simple!

“I’d rather not, to be perfectly honest.”

“You know what this is doing to Rhodey and Pepper,” she glared, setting the bottle of vodka down next to her. “They loved him too, Tony. And they love you. Don’t deteriorate into your grief, it won’t fix anything.” 

“Being drunk is better than being sober and thinking about-” The last time he saw Peter. The sound of Peter’s laugh. His dreams about going to college and asking out MJ. 

About parts of his body being discarded and left to decay in the ground. 

“It probably is better,” Natasha said honestly. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be aware of what was going on either.” 

“But you’re not me,” Tony laughed, but there was no humor in it. If anything, it just sounded even more like he was about to burst into tears. 

“No, no I’m not. I’ve never lost a child. I don’t know what that’s like, and I never will. But I do know what it means to be pathetic, to let your own selfishness get the best of you.”

“Natasha Romanov? Selfish?” Natasha shrugged, the edge of her lips tilting up. 

“You don’t know every story about the Red Room, and you certainly don’t know everything about Steve and I. What you do need to know, Antoshka, is simple. We’re similar creatures when it comes to grief. We go to be alone, lick our wounds. Even if we’re not the only ones hurting. So many of you miss Peter. Slowly killing yourself instead of trying to get through this together? Just because it’s easier for you? Because it’s what you want? Yes, it’s selfish.” 

“So what do you want me to do?” Natasha put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed it slightly. 

“Call May. Arrange a funeral. Get your shit together and figure out who did this. And stop fucking drinking,” she says simply, getting up and brushing off invisible lint from her uniform. “Also, I’m taking this.” She grabbed the vodka before he could say anything else, and she hopped onto the top of the couch to remove a panel from the ceiling. He watched her jump in, leaving without even saying goodbye. 

Fucking Russian ex-assassins. 

* * *

Tony waited until the next day to call May, just to spite Natasha. He was going to do it, he just refused to let himself get pushed around by deadly Russian spies. Much, anyway. 

He stared down at the phone, almost begging his mouth to open and for his voice to work so he could just ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to call May. Needless to say, it was a lot harder than he thought. He considered leaving it for the next day, waiting and pushing it off until he could handle it. 

Thing was, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to handle this. 

So he opened his mouth, and his voice, tired and shaky, began to talk. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., please call May,” he asked, squeezing his temples in an attempt to stave off the headache he could feel brewing. So far, thirty-six hours sober felt like being punched in the head. Not very enjoyable. He hadn’t missed this from the first few times he had gone sober.

“Calling May Parker, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, dialing the woman before Tony could take it back and go back to the workshop and cocoon in his cowardice. 

The line rang twice, and then the dreaded moment came. 

“Tony? Tony, are you there?” Fuck. 

“May-hi. Yeah. It’s me,” Tony rambled, wincing at how idiotic he sounded. “Uh-how have you been?” May sucked in a breath of air. 

“Seriously?” 

“Sorry, sorry. That was-a really dumb question, May, I’m sorry,” Tony quickly said, sinking down on his and Rhodey’s bed with his chin in his hands. “I’m honestly not really sure what to say.” 

“Maybe start with why you ignored my calls for the past week,” May suggested cooly, and yeah, he deserved that. 

“I didn’t know how-I didn’t want to have to have that conversation. About what they found.” The line is silent, but he could hear May sniff. 

“Neither did I, Tony. I never wanted to plan a funeral for my murdered child. But guess what-I don’t have a choice. That’s part of being a parent,” May said harshly, voice starting to rise. It was thick with tears. 

“I’m sorry, May.” What else could he say, really? 

“Peter saw you as a mentor. You basically co-parented him with me. And then you fucking left me to handle this on my own! Tony-” May’s voice broke, and for a few seconds, all he could hear was May’s quick breathing and the sound of someone falling apart. 

“May-” He started again, trying to sound comforting, but she cut him off. 

“I heard from Pepper that you’ve been drinking. Well, I called her and basically forced her to tell me why you were ignoring me,” May continued. “Seriously, Tony? You can drink yourself to death but you won’t help me organize a funeral for our dead kid?” The words were harsh, cutting, but he didn’t disagree with her point. May had always been a fantastic parent to Peter, always known what he needed-even when he wasn’t with them anymore. “Jesus, Tony, I-” Tony rushed to talk.

“I’ve been sober for thirty-six hours. Closer to thirty-seven, now.” He didn’t mention Natasha’s brutal choice of tough love. It wasn’t exactly compassionate, and far from the way to interact with someone with an addiction problem. Regardless, that was Natasha. It seemed to shock May, based on her silence.

“Good,” she finally said with a note of sincerity. May has always been too good of a person. “Peter wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself.” God, there was the shrapnel in his heart again. He longed for the burn of whiskey, but he forced himself to think of their kid’s smile. They’d never see it in real life again, and that was enough to stop him. 

“No, he wouldn’t. Even if it’s what I deserved,” Tony said honestly. “Look, May-I’ve never. I-I’ve never organized a funeral before.” The word felt clunky in his mouth, bulky and sour. “When my parents died, Obadiah organized everything.” It hadn’t really mattered to him. He had requested that Maria’s favorite flower be there, but other than that, he had left it alone. He hadn’t wanted to see Howard, have Maria’s memory be taken over by his father’s legacy. It was easier to shut his feelings off. 

“I wish I could say the same,” May murmured. It was so quiet, Tony wasn’t sure that she even meant to say it. “We’ll make it special for him.” Tony nodded, though it wasn’t as if May could have seen it. “Having something to keep you busy-it helps, in moments like this.” 

“I can’t believe that he’s gone, May,” Tony admitted. “This feels all surreal. I feel like I’d have been able to feel it, when he-is that crazy?” He couldn’t finish his statement, but he knew May would understand what he was trying to say. 

“It’s not, Tony. I feel the same. But that’s grief, isn’t it,” May responded. Her voice was dejected and thin, as if it was going to snap. “You wish they were still alive so much that you convince yourself it’s true.” 

“Yeah,” Tony sighed. “Okay. Let’s plan this.” 

It was time to say goodbye. 

And after that? He would find Peter’s murderer and choke the life out of them himself. Tony wouldn’t rest until it was done.

* * *

Peter Parker has been gone for three-hundred and forty-five days, fifteen hours, two minutes, and fifty seconds.

* * *

Far away, deep in the woods of Canada, underneath the ground, was a sterile, empty lab.

On the examination table of the lab was a chrysalis, transparent just enough for the body inside to be slightly invisible. The chrysalis began to move as the body fidgeted enough to cause it to wake up. 

Two golden eyes opened. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have like the first four chapters of this piece done and was going to post the second chapter later this week but I just ate some doritos and honestly time is fake so its time for peter whump time friends. take care of yourself bc the tags abt medical trauma/torture/experimentation appear in this chapter, as well as references to violence

The day started like any other for Peter since he was brought here. 

Not that Peter was entirely sure where  _ here  _ was; he’d never been allowed to go outside and he hadn't seen a window since he was taken. It was usually cold in his cell and the facility itself was always chilly, though Peter wasn’t sure if that was because the outside climate was cold and leaking in, or if his captors had kept it cold intentionally, messing with his weak thermoregulation ability. 

They did know he was Spiderman, and had spent the past few months working hard to explore and experiment with every aspect of his biology. 

Peter wasn’t sure if he'd ever be able to see a white lab coat again without feeling a wave of panic. 

But regardless--the day started like any other. 

* * *

“Parker! Wake the fuck up!” The doors of his cell were banged on, and Peter jolted awake, exhausted. He slept surprisingly deeply at night, considering how worn out he felt the rest of the time. The disruption of those few hours always felt like a fresh smack in the face. 

He got up without saying anything, going to the small slot in the door which opened up once a day to deliver him food and water. As always, it slid open as if his captors knew he was waiting, and they shoved in three small packages of food and a large bottle of water. The slot was shut before Peter could even reach down and grab the food. 

Tired, he picked up the few small packages and went towards the right corner of his cell, which he had deemed the eating corner early on. Not that it mattered much when the room was that small, but he preferred keeping any potential crumbs away from the corner where he slept. 

He’d learned that trick after he woke up to a rat crawling on his legs. 

There were a lot of tricks he had picked up, after...he wasn’t sure how many days he had been there at that point. He paused for a moment, frowning at his hands as if the answer was written on his palms. After a second, he shrugged, and looked at the food packets. There wasn’t enough, there never was, but he had gotten used to that  _ very  _ quickly. The gnaw of hunger in his gut had become his constant companion.

Each packet was actually an MRE, containing one full meal. Peter wasn’t sure, but he had been pretty certain that civilians couldn’t buy this stuff, making him question even more the identity of the people who captured him. The military? It wasn’t that far of a leap, after all, considering the Army had been after Dr. Banner for years. 

There were three different meals, a spaghetti one, a chicken one, and a beef one. Sighing, Peter opened the spaghetti one and started to prepare it. While the MREs were fine for non-mutated people, with his metabolism, three MREs weren’t enough for the day. Hell, they weren’t even enough for one meal for him. 

As little as it was, however, it was better than nothing at all. He had tried to beg the guards who delivered them for more at one point, one of his first weeks here. Back when he still was counting the days. He had had his back teeth removed as punishment. 

So now, he just took the packets and ate one for each meal, rationing the water and savoring the few meager calories he got and the heat from the ration heater that each meal came with. Those few moments of warmth had probably kept him from freezing to death several times. 

He mindlessly finished preparing the spaghetti, and began to eat, trying his best to eat at a normal pace. It didn’t make more food appear when he did it, but sometimes it tricked his mind into thinking there was more than there was. 

“That looks worse than the school cafeteria food, dude,” Ned snorted, and Peter shrugged. He looked up to see his friend sitting in front of him, head casually in his hands. Peter knew Ned wasn’t  _ really  _ there, but he’d stopped being frightened of the hallucinations a long time ago. Weirdly enough, they were the only thing keeping him sane. 

“Considering the school injects our food with chemicals, I’m not surprised,” MJ pointed out, not looking up from the book she was reading. Even like this, the sight of his friend made his face slightly heat up. Sure, this MJ was a hallucination, but she was still the girl he was in love with, after all. 

_ “Doesn’t taste too bad. Better than the school tuna salad,”  _ Peter joked in his head, his lips quirking up when Ned laughed. Though, he thought to himself, if he could get a vat of that tuna salad right then, he’d inhale the entire thing on the spot, regardless of whether it was heated up. Hunger was a bitch. 

“What are you going to do today? Figure out how to get out? Plan a sneak attack? Practice your webs on these guys?” Ned asked, his voice excited. This was how Peter knew that the Ned in front of him was a hallucination. While Ned had believed in Spiderman to a fault, he was realistic, and the situation Peter was in? Yeah, Spiderman was no help. 

“Ned, stop it,” MJ muttered, looking up and glaring at Ned. She seemed to understand the situation that Peter was in. 

_ “Oh, you know, same old, same old.”  _ Ned nodded, taking in his words. 

“You do have a plan though, right?” 

_ “Of course I do. I am the friendly neighborhood Spiderman, after all,”  _ Peter weakly lied, though Ned didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t, he wasn’t real. Ned beamed at him, pulling out his phone while Peter ate his food. MJ, however, could tell that something was wrong, and her dark brown eyes glanced at him sadly before turning back to her book. Peter understood. There wasn’t much to say. 

Spiderman was gone. Sure, Peter was alive, but even if he had access to his suit or web-shooters, he wasn’t sure he’d be physically able to escape. The lack of food for the countless number of days had weakened him, making even just walking exhausting. He still wasn’t fully healed from any of his injuries either, because his metabolism wasn’t working; again, because of the lack of food. Add in the fact that he had no idea where he was or how to get out, and he’d probably die trying to escape. If he did manage to get outside, and it was really as cold as it seemed, he’d probably freeze to death within a day or two. 

He was really, truly stuck. 

He didn’t like thinking about it; about being taken and hidden where no one could find him. If it was possible, no doubt someone would have come by then. No, Peter was unfortunately stuck, and thinking about that only made his situation feel worse. 

“Crap, I have to get ready for bed, see you at school tomorrow?” Peter looked up at Ned, who was standing up and putting his phone away. Peter smiled, giving him a little wave. 

_ “Yeah, I’ll see you then.”  _ As soon as he thought the words, Ned vanished, leaving Peter alone once more. He sighed, opening up the small packet of crackers that came in the MRE. MJ was still there, however, reading her book.  _ “Don’t you have school tomorrow too, MJ?”  _

“You know I don’t, Peter,” she sighed, looking up at him with that same sad look again. “How could I? I’m not real.” Peter just shrugged, unsure of what to say. It was a new level of shit going down when his hallucinations were telling him he had made them up. She leaned forwards, placing a hand on his shoulder, but it went right through him. She didn’t seem to notice. 

“Stay alive, Peter. Please,” she asked, giving him a grim smile before disappearing. 

While he loved seeing his friends, hallucinations or not, lately it made him feel worse, to be reminded of who he was taken from. To be talked to and touched, and for it to not be real? To feel cold hands where there should have been human warmth? It made him want to crawl up in the corner and die, curl up like a normal spider and stop trying to live through this. It was so damn tempting. 

But he couldn’t. He knew it, down to his bones, that Tony and May would still be looking for him. While he doubted he’d ever be found, it wasn’t fair to his aunt and his mentor to just give up. 

So he wouldn’t give up, but there was no reason why he had to stay awake until they came and got him. He frankly didn’t have the energy for that. He went back to his sleeping corner, holding the packets of food and the ration heater against his body, and curled up. 

He was asleep within seconds. 

* * *

When Peter woke up again, it was to the sound of footsteps approaching his cell. While his enhanced strength and speed were lacking due to the lack of calories, his senses were still dialed up, giving him the chance to hear what his captors were saying. 

“I mean, you have to agree it’s getting kind of frustrating. I haven’t seen Beth and the kids in six months,” one of them complained. “Sure, the month of vacation time was nice, but then freezing my ass for six months in Canada to hurt a kid-”

“Jared, the subject has enhanced hearing; are you a dumbass intentionally or accidentally?” He could hear the sound of someone getting smacked, probably on the shoulder. The reverberation of a smack to the face sounded much different, he would know. 

The old Peter would have felt bad for Jared, who of all the people who had guarded him over the time he was here, was the most chatty and the most regretful for what was going on around him. When he was the one bringing Peter food, or if he had a few spare seconds where he was close enough to Peter and far away from everyone else so that he wouldn’t be overheard, he’d sometimes talk to him. He’d tell him he’d be okay, or what was in the MRE packets. Peter knew, logistically, that this was dangerous. Despite never hearing it directly, there seemed to be an order that Peter wasn’t supposed to be spoken to, and Jared did it regardless. He seemed almost apologetic during the times Peter left the operating room fully awake and bleeding from hastily made stitches. 

Almost. 

After all, for all of the hushed words and few seconds of being treated like a human, all the regret in the world didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t challenged how Peter was being treated. Didn’t help him escape or go to the authorities. 

The old Peter would have figured that Jared was just as stuck as he was. 

That Peter had died on the floor of his cell, skull bashed in. 

The door started to open, and Peter stayed put in his corner, waiting for the guards to come in. While the guards and the scientists expected compliance, they were more than willing to shoot if he seemed intimidating at all, and that included standing up before being ordered. He had learned that the hard way. 

“C’mon, kiddo, time to go to the lab,” Jared said cheerily, though the smile on his face was incredibly strained. The comment made Peter wince inside, Tony’s brown eyes flashing to the forefront of his mind. Nope. He refused to think about that right now, to ruin his memories of Tony and of safety. He pushed it away as he shakily got up on his legs. He felt like a newborn fawn most days. 

The other guard wasn’t as patient as Jared, grabbing Peter’s arm and basically dragging him out of the room. Peter didn’t resist-he never did, anymore. Jared and the other guard (who he thought he recalled being called Gordan, or maybe Grant? He wasn’t sure) led him down the long hallway from his cell towards the large lab in the building, passing by a few dozen empty cells and smaller labs along the way. 

The place might have been a prison at one time, but he was the only prisoner there now. He never heard heartbeats from other people unless it was the guards coming to get him. 

The journey from his cell to the lab seemed like a long one, though that was possibly because of the malnutrition rearing its ugly head yet again. Each day, the walk felt harder and longer, and his breath was heavier. Despite all the experiments the scientists were doing, Peter honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the physical exertion of just  _ being  _ killed him first. 

Jared stopped in front of the heavy doors of the lab, scanning his ID to be let in. The doors opened, and Peter fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, like a child in the dark trying to keep the monsters away. But he kept his eyes open, and tried to keep his face as neutral as possible. The guards and scientists liked him as quiet and submissive as possible, liked him to be a robot who didn’t respond. 

Did that make it easier, he wondered, as one of the lab assistants took him from the guards to get him ready for that day’s experiments? If they saw him as a robot, instead of a teenager? The lab assistant got him undressed, and then tied a long hospital gown around him. She took his blood, weight, height, and blood pressure for the day, making notes on the tablet she carried with her. 

Whatever the data was, she deemed it sufficient enough for him to move into the main area of the lab, where a large dissection table was in the center of the room. The room itself was a flurry of movement, full of excited scientists comparing data on the screens that were around them and preparing the instruments for the day’s experiments. They were clearly going to inject him with something that day, though of course, he had no idea what was about to be put inside his body. 

“Ah, the subject is finally here! Lisa, get the syringes ready!” The lead scientist came up, a tall man with dark red hair and small ears. He smiled at Peter, looking him up and down as if examining a particularly interesting exhibit at the museum. “It's looking a bit peaky. Ah, well. It’ll give our study more accurate results,” he said, shrugging. 

_ “Maybe if you fed me more,”  _ Peter protested, but no one heard. How could they have? It's not like he could speak, they had stolen his ability to speak months ago. He was stuck in his head.

What the hell were they going to do this time?   
  


Despite his best efforts, he felt panic start to rise in him, and he tried to yank his arm away from the lab assistant. He was weak, though, and all it did was cause him to stumble to the floor when she let go of his arm. The lead scientist crouched down, a displeased look on his face. 

“Now, now. You’ve been behaving so well since we took this out,” he said, his voice a mockery of compassion. He tapped his finger against the scar tissue on Peter’s neck, ignoring his flinch. “Let’s not make me have to call in the big guns, alright? The person who’s paying me to do this would be mad if we had to clean up more of your blood again.” 

Peter didn’t believe in hell, never had, but he had obviously heard of hell before. Had wondered a few times what it looked like, if it had actually existed. 

The reality of it never came close to what he had pictured. 

* * *

Like any normal day, as soon as the scientists were finished with Peter, he was escorted back to his cell with his guards and pushed inside. It usually was a reprieve, a few hours away from experiments and scalpels and blood. He could breathe, heat up an MRE or two, based on if he had the chance to eat lunch that day. 

That day, Peter was possibly more exhausted than before, though this was a different type of tired. He felt blank, outside of his body and struggling to go back in as the guards dragged him back to his rat hole. Everything was numb after experiments, though today had been particularly brutal. 

They had injected him with something that caused him to spike into fevers and make his intestines feel like they were full of daggers. Whenever he thought he was about to die, they injected him with something and the pain and heat would go away, slowly bringing him back down. They would take his vitals, give him an IV of fluids, and then start at it again. 

It was horrific. 

He stumbled into his sleeping corner once the door of his cell was closed and the heartbeats of the guards started to fade away. He wasn’t sure if his cell was slightly warmer or if it was the after-effects of what he had been injected with, but he welcomed it. 

“You need to eat, baby,” the voice said, and Peter wanted to cry for the first time in weeks. His eyes flickered open to see May looking at him worriedly, the MREs in front of her. 

“ _ Too tired. Just want to sleep _ ,” he murmured. It was always hard seeing May like this, but today just felt so much infinitely worse. 

“You gotta, kiddo. They took a lot of blood from you,” Tony said, his normally sarcastic voice far, far too serious. May  _ and  _ Tony talking to him at once? It was like the universe was trying to make him lose it. “C’mon, we’ll watch the doors while you eat, and then you can go to sleep, okay?”

“Please, Peter,” May pleaded. He looked at the MREs and picked one up, slowly ripping open the package. May and Tony were right. He needed to eat, even if the meager rations were barely keeping him going in the first place. It was necessary after a day like today. 

He made quick work of the first MRE, not trying to eat slowly and make it feel like more. He was too tired, and he was getting two of them at once. He opened the second one, trying not to note the worried looks on Tony and May’s faces. Eating  _ did _ help slightly, and he felt the warmth from earlier dissipate. Must have been an after-effect after all. 

“C’mon, Pete, I’ll help you fall asleep,” May said sadly, sitting in the sleeping corner and holding her arms open. Peter let her wrap her arms around him, and if he held the ration heaters close enough, it almost felt like warmth from a real person. 

“And I’ll talk you to sleep. Want to hear about the time I blew up the freshman lab at MIT?” Tony asked, sitting down across from them. Peter nodded his head tiredly, and settled against the wall to let Tony’s story, the same story he told all the time, finally lull him to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i am exhausted from writing my thesis here is a chapter. chapter spoilers in the end note, loves. also, this fic's title is inspired by the poem "my father moved through dooms of love" by e.e. cummings

“So what did you and May decide on?” Rhodey asked, frying the onions that Tony handed over to him. The kitchen was warm and bright, a cocoon of safety from everything that was going on in the world right now. A world without Peter. 

“Nothing too flashy. Which is understandable-Peter wouldn’t have wanted that,” Tony said quietly. He was chopping peppers for the stir fry they were making, lost in the calming, repetitive motions. “May wanted to have the funeral sooner rather than later, but the medical examiner’s office is dragging their feet.” 

“Do they know when they’ll be...done?” Rhodey asked weakly, frowning at the frying pan. Tony shrugged, bringing over the chopped peppers. The bright green, red, and yellow seemed too vibrant, too alive for the conversation. 

“They told the two of us that as soon as they were done, they’d call us. You’d think they were talking about paperwork, not the remains of our kid,” Tony explained tiredly, wrapping his arms around Rhodey’s waist and resting his head between his shoulder blades. “I’m trying to pull some strings, but who knows?”

“I just don’t understand why it’s taking so long, I mean-” Rhodey started, but he stopped without finishing his sentence. 

Tony knew that tone of voice. It was the tone of voice Rhodey took on when his husband thought he was about to lose it. He had heard it a lot after his mother and Jarvis had died. 

“We’re both thinking it. ‘Why is it taking so long when there wasn’t that much to examine?’” Tony asked, voice hollow. He felt Rhodey’s body tense up, no doubt thinking about the fragments of the kid they all loved so much. “I asked them that too, but no dice. It seemed so routine with them, when I talked to them over the phone. Like this thing happens every day.” 

“It does, in their world.” 

“Still. Peter was a kid. He had a whole life ahead of him. I know every kid does who they’ve examined. I get it. But god. They just sounded so...normal, about my kid laying in pieces on the fucking table,” Tony swore, the need for a drink rising. He pushed it away, though, Peter’s brown eyes stopping him. He’d been sober for almost three days, now. He wasn’t going to break. “It’s just not fair.” Rhodey lowered the heat on the stove, and turned around, pulling Tony towards him in a tight hug. 

“No, it’s not fair. Peter deserved the world. It’s okay to cry, you don’t have to keep it in,” Rhodey said in that same tone of voice. Damn Rhodey, for knowing him too damn well. Tony listened to the faint whir of Rhodey’s braces, focusing on the sound instead of how hot and heavy his eyes felt. 

“I’m tired of crying. I really am. I’m tired of all of this, Rhodey. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through this. I have no idea how May has done this so many times, I really don’t,” Tony admitted, his head against the warmth of Rhodey’s chest. His shirt smelled like that fabric softener his mother swore by. 

“Neither do I, Tones. I can’t imagine it. But we’re not going to let May get through this alone.” 

“We’re going to be there whether she likes it or not,” Tony decided out loud, hoping that for all the mistakes he had made, all the shitty ways he had interfered with Peter’s life, his aunt would still let him be there for her. 

“We should get her some flowers,” Rhodey suggested. “We could go pick some up tomorrow, deliver them to her? It would be more private for the two of you.” Tony shrugged, though the shrapnel in his chest felt slightly less sharp at Rhodey’s suggestion. God, he loved the man.

“Just not tulips,” he said quietly. “Peter was allergic to them as a kid, she doesn’t like having them in the house. But maybe-I think maybe bringing her something to eat would be good, right? I don’t know, I didn’t eat anything after my parents, Obie just kept giving me drinks, but people do that, bring meals? Peter always said,” he started, willing his stupid heart to stop feeling so heavy, “he said May was the most horrible cook. Would live off cereal and peanut butter and jelly if he wasn’t there.” 

“Alright then, we can make something for her to eat for the next few days too,” Rhodey said, kissing the top of Tony’s head. “C’mon, let’s finish dinner, okay? You’re still on vegetable duty.” 

“Alright, oh captain my captain,” Tony snarked, the familiar teasing easy to fall back on.

“Colonel, but I’ll let it slide, since I know you hate being a sous chef,” Rhodey responded, the words actually making Tony laugh the smallest bit. Rhodey looked delighted, turning back to the frying pan and turning the heat back up. It wasn’t much, that moment, not a distraction from how horrific the past year had been, how painful everything was. But it was a small reminder-Tony had Rhodey. Tony had gotten through everything horrible that had happened to him before.

He could get through this too. For Peter. 

* * *

Of course, things were never that simple.

* * *

Tony woke up to the sound of the annoyingly chirpy ringtone that he had picked out for Bruce. 

“Tones? What’s goin’ on?” Rhodey asked, sleepily rubbing his eyes as Tony groaned. When he had created a set of untraceable phones for him and Bruce (well, untraceable except for Tony himself), he had told Bruce to call him day or night. 

He hadn’t actually thought Bruce was going to _do it_ at two in the morning. 

“It’s Bruce, he’s calling,” Tony muttered, pushing himself out of their pile of blankets to dig through his nightstand. 

“That can’t be good.” Understatement of the year. Last he checked, Bruce and Birdbrain had been happily spending time together at one of Clint’s safehouses, somewhere in the isolation that was Minnesota. He hadn’t heard from Bruce in nearly four months, right before he had left to get the Hulk in order. The search for Peter had understandably caused more Hulk-outs than his friend had been comfortable with. 

Calling in the middle of the night? With his untraceable phone? Yeah, this couldn’t be good. 

Tony’s fingers closed around the vibrating phone, and he quickly flipped it open, holding it up to his ear. 

“Bruce? Are you okay?” 

“Tony, thank god!” Bruce said, his voice panicked. “You need to get here right now. It’s, it’s bad. You need to get, fuck! You need to get here,” he groaned, his breathing frantic. Tony had been friends with Bruce long enough to know when the Hulk was pushing at the surface and getting too close for comfort. 

“Bruce, calm down. Just breathe. I’m already pulling my shoes on, I’ll be there ASAP. F.R.I.D.A.Y., trace Big Green’s phone and get the coordinates.” 

“Tracing, Boss.” He hopped out of bed and pushed on a pair of crocs that Peter had gotten him for his birthday the year before, Bruce’s predicament stopping him from feeling a sense of grief. Rhodey had sat up in bed at that point, looking at his husband with a concerned frown on his face.

“Is he alright?” He asked, no doubt already mentally going through the list of things that could make Bruce panic. Tony shrugged, but he knew he had to look worried from the way Rhodey’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“What’s going on?” He heard Bruce take a few deep breaths before continuing.

“He showed up, Tony! He’s here!” Fuck. Ross. He must have found Clint’s safehouse somehow. It had to be him, there was no one else that could put that kind of fear in Bruce. Rhodey got out of bed, putting a hand against 

“Hide, Bruce, okay? I won’t let Ross take you away,” Tony urged, ignoring Rhodey’s questions as he left the room. He had to get to the landing pad on top of the tower and get in a suit as quickly as possible. He could head towards Minnesota and let F.R.I.D.A.Y. direct him towards the exact location once he got close enough. 

“Tones, wait a minute-”

“It’s not Ross, Tony!” What? He stopped for a moment, pausing long enough for Rhodey to catch up with him. 

“ _Tony!”_ Rhodey asked, but there was a growing feeling of dread in his stomach. 

“Then no offense, Bruce, who the hell is worth calling me for at two in the morning?” 

“It’s Peter!”

* * *

There was so _much._ Noises, sounds, colors, figures, information, rushing through Peter’s head fast enough to make him feel like he was stuck in rapidly rushing water. 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything so overwhelming or beautiful before. Because it was undeniably beautiful, like a giant tapestry where he could see every fiber of every thread, every overlap in the pattern around him.

God, the things he could see. The smallest particles in the wood of the coffee table, the deep red color of the apples on the kitchen table. Each small detail of the feather that must have been pulled from an overstuffed cushion, lying abandoned on the floor. He could see the heat leaving the cooling tea mug in front of him, the electricity connecting the safe house to a small power generator outside the farmhouse. He could see the energy from the few appliances in his line of sight, tendrils of vibrant energy that tempted him to look closer at them. There were Clint’s hearing aids, letting out tiny little beams of light. 

But the sensory overload was intense, a pain worse than when his skull had been cracked open on the floor of his cell. His eyes had changed, certainly, to take in all of this detail, but he wasn’t used to it. 

No matter how much he had changed. 

It didn’t feel real. _He_ didn’t feel real. He felt detached, outside of his body. He knew was physically there, but it was beyond disconcerting. 

He sat across from the couch, an old blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he stared at Clint. Dr. Banner had left as soon as he had given him the blanket, something Peter had been thankful for. It had been bad enough being found in the garbage, even worse to see the small glances that Dr. Banner and Clint gave each other after they had seen all of the dried blood and dirt on him and the hospital gown he was wearing. 

Clint was silent, watching Peter as he stared into space. He wasn’t looking at the archer, but he could feel it through those strands of the tapestry around him. If anything, it was like something was tugging at the front of his head, begging him to lift his gaze up to the man. He was too busy trying to listen to Dr. Banner, however. 

Dr. Banner was in the mudroom, the bright red energy coming from his phone lighting up where the scientist had run off to. Peter didn’t physically move, but he could feel his mind tugging onto the strings of that light, pulling him closer so that he could perfectly hear every aspect of the conversation. That wasn’t too different from his hearing before-well, before. What was different now was that he could tug on the energy strings of the phone, and it felt like the call was occurring inside of his head. _I’m one with the phone_ , he thought solemnly, though immediately the thought made him snort. He could feel the look that Clint was giving him, and frankly, Peter didn’t blame him. 

He expected to have an anxiety attack when he was around the Avengers again, not feel sarcastic and detached from reality. Maybe more about him had changed than he thought. Ignoring the dread that appeared in his stomach with that one thought, he focused again on pulling on those strings of energy. 

_“It’s Peter!”_ The line was silent for a minute. Peter could feel three heartbeats other than his own. The heartbeat of the person Dr. Banner was calling was thready and fast, the beats irregular. 

_“Bruce, you better be being forced to make this phone call and say that to me, because it’s not fucking funny.”_ Peter’s own heart stopped-metaphorically, at least. (He wasn’t sure if his body was capable of that anymore.) 

Tony. 

Dr. Banner was calling Tony. To tell him he had Peter. 

_“I left New York because just hearing his name sent the Other Guy into a rampage, why the fuck would I make a joke about this? He’s here.”_ Dr. Banner sounded angrier than Peter had ever remembered, and the emotion coming from him made the strands of energy suddenly constrict around Peter’s palms uncomfortably. He felt something poke at the inside of his brain, felt someone staring at the back of his head. There was something at the corner of his eyes, but he focused on the phone conversation. He’d been ignoring it for days, he wasn’t going to look at it again. 

Though maybe being around Dr. Banner and his anger after months of being tortured and experimented on was a bad idea. 

In his defense, however, Clint had told him about the safehouse, and that was closest to where he had escaped. He hadn’t expected Dr. Banner to be there. 

_“How? Fuck, how long? How did you find him, is he okay, he-”_

_“We heard something in the middle of the night. Thought it was a raccoon trying to get into the chicken coop. He was outside near the vegetables, he’d tripped the compost bin over.”_

_“Is he okay?”_

It was an understandable question. Peter wasn’t sure if he could answer it. 

_“He’s got a hell of a lot of dirt on him, and he’s covered in dried blood, but it looks old. I don’t think it’s his. It’s weird, Tony. He doesn’t look malnourished. If anything, he looks healthier than I’ve ever seen him. The only scar he’s even got on him is on his neck,”_ Dr. Banner admitted slowly. 

_“How is that possible? He’s been gone for almost a year!”_ Tony screeched, his voice rising frantically. Peter froze, the words washing over him. 

He’d been gone that long? 

_“I don’t know, Tony, fucking-none of this is normal! Just get here, soon!”_

_“Okay, okay, I’ll take the suit, have Rhodey come by in the jet. Just. Make sure he’s safe. I can’t lose him again, Bruce,”_ Tony said, voice breaking. 

_“I won’t let anything happen to him, Tony. Clint is with him right now, he’s safe. Just--I need to warn you. We’ll do an exam with Helen, even though he looks fine overall, but he’s...different, Tony.”_

_“He’s been gone for a year. Probably tortured for the entirety of that time. Of course he’s different,” Tony said harshly._

_“His eyes aren’t the same anymore. They’re yellow. Or gold, maybe? They’re not brown anymore, that’s for sure.”_ Tony made a noise on the other end of the line, but Dr. Banner interrupted him before he started talking. _“I don’t know-just get here, see for yourself,”_ Dr. Banner whispered, walking back to where Peter and Clint were sitting. It was easy to avoid Dr. Banner’s eyes; he focused instead on staring straight ahead. It was still somewhat difficult, with all the stimuli, but he’d spent months-well, a year, how about that?-making sure that he didn’t react to almost anything. 

_“I...I’ll be there soon.”_ The line clicked, and Dr. Banner sighed, flipping the phone shut and shoving it into the pocket of his sweatpants. He looked at Peter, then Clint, and walked slowly to sit down next to Clint. Like he was trying to assure Peter he wouldn’t hurt him. 

He knew he wouldn’t-there was a reason why he just felt slightly uncomfortable with the two men, rather than there being a repeat of what had happened in the lab. The thing at the corner of his vision laughed, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut, putting his hands over his ears. 

It didn’t help.

“Peter? Are you alright?” Dr. Banner asked, his voice clearly concerned. 

That was the question, wasn’t it? Too bad he had no idea how to even begin to start answering that. 

_“Fine, I guess,”_ he said, opening his eyes and waiting for Dr. Banner to answer. He realized after a second of silence that his think-speech wouldn’t work anymore. Dr. Banner and Clint weren’t hallucinations, they couldn’t hear his thoughts. Damn. He shrugged his shoulders instead, hoping that the crestfallen look on his face wasn’t noticeable. 

“I can grab you something else to wear, Pete,” Clint suggested, starting to get up, but Dr. Banner touched his forearm, shaking his head. 

“Clint-you can’t. The blood, we can test the DNA,” Dr. Banner said quietly, his eyes pained. Part of Peter, a part of him that felt crushed and cold in his chest, winced when he realized that Dr. Banner was trying to keep it quiet for him. Even if he hadn’t changed, he’d still have been able to hear him, but it was the thought that counted. “It’s best if we try not to further contaminate-”

“I don’t give a shit about DNA contamination, Bruce,” Clint said, glaring at him. It was an odd look on Clint; he usually only had that look during a battle. “What I give a shit about is Peter. The kid is wearing a fucking filthy johnny, I’m putting him in a sweatshirt and pants.” Dr. Banner leaned back as if he’d been slapped, the expression on his face hurt. Clint clearly noticed it too, and his face crumpled. “Shit-I’m sorry, Bruce.” He closed his eyes, wiping a hand over his face wearily. 

Peter squinted at him, looking at the changes in them. There were dark circles underneath Clint’s eyes and more grey in Dr. Banner’s hair. The glasses Dr. Banner was wearing were slightly thicker, and Clint had more scars on his chin and a new bump on his nose. How much had he missed? Would everyone else look like familiar strangers? That cold, buried part of him made him moan, the sound weak and making him jump. The sound made Dr. Banner and Clint look back at him, but he couldn’t find the energy in him to care. 

Maybe he’d been fixed after all? 

“Peter? I know there’s a lot going on right now, okay? But you’re safe, alright? I promise.” Peter looked at him, giving him a slight, stiff nod.

“Do you remember anything about how you got here? It’s okay, you can talk to us,” Dr. Banner said when he noticed the no-doubt cautious look on his face. Peter opened his mouth the tiniest bit and tried to make a sound, but clamped it shut when all that came out was a guttural groan. 

_“I don’t think I can,”_ Peter said in his head, but obviously they didn’t hear that. He tried again, opening his mouth even less, and tried to get the words out, but this time all that came out was a choking noise. 

Suddenly the feeling of being unreal disappeared, his sense of self shoved back into his body. He could feel the warmth of his skin, the way the rug felt under his tired feet. The coolness of the wall against his spine. But more importantly, he could feel the emptiness. 

His hands went to this throat, feeling around where old scar tissue used to be. His fingers traced over the same lumpy scar, the scar that had lasted despite his enhanced healing and despite everything else that had been healed by what they had put in him. 

He didn’t want to check, but he had to. He had to confirm that the emptiness was real. 

Peter tentatively put a few fingers in his mouth, ignoring the looks Dr. Banner and Clint were giving him. He angled his head, looking at the ground, so they wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing. He traced over his teeth, feeling the now filled spaces where they had been pulled, and panicked when he realized that despite everything, his tongue was still gone. 

He jabbed his fingers harder in his mouth, down his throat, and made another choking noise, his stomach protesting with a wave of bile coming up. The panic started to rise as he swallowed around his fingers, and he yanked them, touching frantically at his neck. He had no time to even think about how disgusting his fingers felt, the smell of vomit that was now in the room. Everything felt _wrong._ His hands pressed tighter against his neck, and he felt bruises start to form on his skin. 

“Peter, don’t do that,” Clint urged, moving forward to stop him. Peter’s hands instantly dropped, and he pressed himself against the wall, staring at the archer. Clint instantly paused, but that didn’t stop the adrenaline from rushing through Peter’s body, his spider-sense telling him to get out, _now._ If only he could, though. Everything was too much, too intense and sharp, the threads he had used before to eavesdrop wrapping around his chest and squeezing _hard._

“Clint, step back, okay,” Dr. Banner said quietly. “Peter, it’s fine. It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re not going to touch you, alright? I promise.” He held his hands up, clearly trying to calm him down. Peter tracked all of his motions, watched the over-exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. After a few seconds, Peter nodded, but he wrapped the blanket tighter around him. 

“You don’t have to talk, okay? We won’t make you,” Dr. Banner assured. “Can I ask you a few questions, though? Just to make sure you’re physically okay? You just have to nod or shake your head.” Peter stared him down for a few minutes, the tight feeling around his chest getting more uncomfortable as vomit dripped from his fingers. Dr. Banner, to his credit, didn’t seem to mind waiting for any response from Peter. 

“Okay, thank you. Are you physically hurt at all?”

_“Not anymore,”_ Peter said, shaking his head. Clint let out a small breath, but the crease between his eyebrows was still there. 

“Alright. Is the blood on you yours?” Peter shook his head again, but didn’t say anything. He really, really didn’t want to remember how the blood had gotten on him. The thing in the corner of his eyes, on the other hand, made a noise of interest. “Do you know how it got on you?”

_“I don’t want to talk about that,”_ Peter whispered, but he nodded. That seemed to be enough for Dr. Banner though, or maybe he could tell that he was starting to get anxious again, with the talk of the blood. 

“Okay, you did good, Peter, okay? You’re safe, and we’re going to keep you safe. Tony should be here soon.” The clicking of nails on the floor made Peter’s eyes flick over to the hallway, where a one-eyed dog was trotting over to them. Well, more like him. “I’ll be right back, okay? I need to make a call.” Part of Peter wanted to listen in on Dr. Banner’s conversation again, either connect with the energy like he had before or simply use his enhanced hearing, but he was using all of his energy trying not to freak the fuck out again and crush his windpipe.

“Lucky, great timing,” Clint muttered, trying to call the dog over, but it went straight to Peter, nudging his knee and looking at him curiously. Peter stared down at it, looking at the details of its fur and its wagging tail. It stuck its tongue out, and he could see every single taste bud in detail. He wrinkled his nose, leaning back a bit to ignore any kind of drool. 

“Lucky, come here,” Clint ordered, and the dog looked over before going to the archer. Thank god, the proximity was setting him on edge. Which was frustrating, really. Because he had spent almost a year wanting to be able to be around other people, and here he was, freaking out. He was so distracted by watching Lucky that he was almost able to block out Dr. Banner’s conversation. Almost. 

_“Tony, there’s definitely something wrong,”_ Dr. Banner said quietly. _“He’s not talking.”_

The thing in the corner of his eyes laughed, the sound making Peter feel nauseous. It was too close, _too close!_ He closed his eyes again and shoved all of the stimuli out of his head, _hard._ It took all of his focus to do so, and it was making him sweat. But it was peaceful. It was safe. 

He was taken out of his mind by the sound of his voice being called. 

_“_ Peter? Peter, are you there?” He looked up to see Dr. Banner crouched on the ground a few feet away from him, their vision level. “Peter, it’s completely fine if you don’t want to, but Tony wants to talk to you. If you want to, I can give you the phone and you can maybe just listen to him talk?” Peter bit his lip, teeth gnashing into the skin. 

The idea of listening to yet another sound, when that-that _Thing_ , was just waiting there? It terrified him. 

But the thought of hearing Tony again won out. He desperately wanted to hear his voice talking to him, Peter, instead of from an eavesdropped conversation. 

Dr. Banner reached his arm out and held the phone out to him, and Peter took it, the device slightly vibrating with energy. The threads of it spiraled around his hand, almost like a web. Peter held up to his ear, holding his breath. 

“Kid? Are you there?” 

His head was filled with screaming. With harsh laughter. _Tony’s_ harsh laughter.

But at the same time, he could hear another Tony. This Tony’s voice was worried. Which one was real? 

What if it was fake, after all? If that was the case-then Dr. Banner and Clint were dangerous.

He had to get away. 

Panicking, his eyes scanned the room, settling on the arrow behind the ottoman. Clint must have left it around. He’d have to move fast, or Clint would catch him. The man was already looking at him suspiciously, but he needed to be able to protect himself. 

“Pete?” Peter hurled the phone forward, so hard and fast that it went through the brick wall across from them. Before Dr. Banner and Clint could react, he was up and moving, lunging for the arrow as Clint began to get up. 

“Peter, no!” Clint moved towards him, moved as if he wanted to grab Peter’s arm, but it was the hesitation to actually touch him that worked in Peter’s favor. His fingers closed around the shaft of the arrow, and he quickly shoved it towards the archer. 

The blood instantly began to bubble up from the wound, and Clint let out a pained noise. Peter’s eyes locked on the vivid red of the blood, and without thinking, he opened his mouth and screamed, _loud_. He didn’t notice Dr. Banner running up next to him, the shot in his hand. 

All he felt was the pinch of pain in his thigh. He turned towards Dr. Banner; watched his face drop as he stared at Peter in horror. The last thing he was was Dr. Banner’s eyes go a bright, vivid green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip peter's brown eyes, u will be missed. 
> 
> ALSOOOOO, fic inspo! Peter being injected w/ a version of Extremis and his new abilities were inspired by other fics. In the fic "(Iron Is A) Star Killer" by RayShippouUchiha Tony injects himself with Extremis, and in the fic "Blue as True as Blue Can Be" by aaralyn Tony is a mutant who can connect to technology. While Peter doesn't have the exact same capabilities Tony has in these fics (Peter's new ability is more about being able to manipulate the threads of reality), there are some similarities that were inspired by them. For example, Peter's permanent change in eye color was inspired by Ray's fic, and his seeing energy from technology was inspired by aaralyn's fic. In addition, later Peter will be able to connect more with technology, this was also inspired by Ray's fic, but not to the same extent that Tony can. I recommend giving these amazing fantastic fics a read!

**Author's Note:**

> i do not own marvel bb


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